


You Know Who I Am

by peg22



Series: Domestic Disturbances [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Explicit Sexual Content, Greg is starving, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Wedding, Season/Series 03, Sherlock's a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peg22/pseuds/peg22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the writing of the speech, grousing about an empty chair, AND attempted murder, Greg barely survived the wedding. He had no idea that the tricky part was going to be after.  When the big reveal of the night sent Sherlock into<br/>a tailspin, taking Greg along for the ride. </p><p>Part 2 of the Domestic Disturbances series - my Sherstrade take on Series 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know Who I Am

_“Have you any funny stories about John?”_

_“What?!”_

_“I need anecdotes. Didn’t go to any trouble, did you?”_

It took Greg thirty minutes to tiptoe his way around a reprimand and out of a suspension. Sherlock could send the thank-you note to Donovan himself this time. It took him fifteen minutes more to convince Mycroft that he was not speaking under duress (the hell he wasn’t) and that yes, Sherlock looked suitably sorry.

Sherlock did not look suitably sorry. When Greg came out of the kitchen, whiskey in hand, still muttering under his breath, Sherlock looked . . . expectant.

“You should have asked Mycroft if he has any anecdotes.” 

Greg walked over and sat in Sherlock’s chair. “I’ve got one for you.” He shook his head. “You know it was the Waters family, right? That you cocked up.”

“Boring.”

“Sherlock – you cannot send me SOS texts anymore.”

Sherlock stood and walked over to Greg. ”Hardly an SOS.”

Greg pulled his mobile out of his pocket and showed the screen to Sherlock.

 _HELP._  
BAKER ST.  
NOW.  
HELP ME.  
PLEASE.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I said please. How much of an emergency could there be when I said please?”

“Right, so the more polite you are, the less of an emergency there is?”

“Right.”

“Then we’re on high alert around here 24/7. Because you are not polite.”

Sherlock nudged Greg’s leg with his knee. “Come.” He held out his hand.

Greg frowned. “Just like that?”

“Just like what?”

Greg sighed. “You cock up a case I’ve been working on for two bloody years and now you want to what – shag it away?”

“Can you do that? Shag it away?”

Greg held his hand out and Sherlock pulled him up. ”Yes, Sherlock – it’s called the healing cock theory. Surprised you haven’t read about it. Very scientific.”

Sherlock pulled Greg to his chest. “It is not. You’re lying.” He kissed Greg hard on the mouth.

Greg pulled back a bit. He’d taken a bit of time to get used to this Sherlock. This _hello come in let’s fuck_ Sherlock. After he got back from – nope, still haven’t found the right words for what happened – he’d been  . . . different.

They’d fallen back into old habits. Spent nights together, arguing, fucking, arguing, laughing – it was the last one that got him. It was almost like Sherlock had been broken to pieces . . . and someone put back an extra piece. He was softer. His edges had been sanded down. Something poetic like that. Whatever it was, Greg was enjoying it.

“Well, come on then, let’s put the theory to the test.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you on duty?”

Greg grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tugged him toward the bedroom. “You owe me.”

“But the speech.” Sherlock hesitated and pulled back.

Greg wanted to strangle Sherlock. And John. Especially John. “I’ll help you with it.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“After.” Greg moved behind Sherlock and shoved him toward the bedroom. “After you make me forget about all the hours of work I just let you flush down the loo.”

Sherlock turned at the bedroom door. “I can’t guarantee this will make up for it.” He leaned against the wall. “Even I have my limits.”

Greg walked over and kissed Sherlock. Sherlock grabbed Greg by the shoulders and pulled him into the bedroom. Greg managed to kick the door closed with his foot.

They landed on the bed and Greg hesitated when Sherlock grimaced. The scars were still healing. Probably shouldn’t be so rough. There was a small bandage on the one on his side – the stitches had been pulled out no less than three times and the edges had yet to heal. For weeks – months now, Greg had rubbed cocoa butter into the scars, trying to help. Trying not to allow the murderous rage he felt every time he saw the damage Sherlock had endured – for him, for John, for all of them – come to the surface. Did no good. There was no one and nowhere left to place the blame. Sherlock and Mycroft had very successfully decimated Moriarty’s network.

Well, at least that’s what they told him. When they said anything.

“Am I boring you?” Sherlock was on his side, looking at Greg.

“Sorry – thinking.”

“That’s my area.” Sherlock leaned in and kissed Greg softly on the lips.

Greg closed his eyes and let Sherlock wipe away all the disappointment of today with his hands and his lips and his whispered sighs when they were finally naked and finely sated – Sherlock’s apology sex was first rate. They slept for a bit and Sherlock yawned and stretched and announced, “I could eat.”

Greg chuckled and stretched out a hand, twisting Sherlock’s nipple. Sherlock brushed his hand away and sat up. “None of that, Detective Inspector. You cannot keep me here without sustenance.” He stood and reached for a robe.

Greg saw the scar down his side and sighed. “Are you taking care of that?”

Sherlock looked at Greg and down at his side. He slid into his robe. “Yes, Mother.” He walked into the kitchen.

Greg rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. Heard Sherlock rattling things in the kitchen and turned to the door when Sherlock popped his head in with, “eggs or  . . .” he looked down at the slightly green container in his hand, “eggs.”

“Eggs’ll do.” Greg stretched his arms over his head. “Coffee, though. No tea.”

Sherlock disappeared and Greg thought about finding his trousers. He thought about finding his phone. Maybe calling to see how far they’d gotten in the arrest paperwork. He thought about how much he cared about his name on the top of the report and discovered he really didn’t care at all. He was getting soft. And old. He rubbed his shoulder and rolled off the bed, scooping his trousers off the floor and tugging them on as he walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock stood at the coffee maker, lost in thought, the coffee streaming out of the machine, onto the heating element while Sherlock held the carafe in the air.

“Oi, there . . .” Greg hustled over, took the carafe from Sherlock’s hands and held it under the stream of coffee. “You need this part, genius.” He grabbed a towel and mopped up most of the spilled coffee, tossed the towel into the sink and turned to see Sherlock walking to his chair. “No worries, I’ll get it.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just sat in his chair, staring off at a spot above Greg’s head.

Great. Mind palace. Greg shook his head and took a skillet from the shelf, set it on the stove and turned the burner on. He cracked three eggs and was just about to turn them when he heard someone knocking at the door.

Sherlock, apparently in a soundproof room in his bloody mind villa, didn’t move. Greg turned down the heat and went to the door.

He was surprised to see John standing in the hallway. When did he ever knock?

“John, what the hell, come in.”

John walked into the room. “Sorry to bother . . .”

Greg squeezed his shoulder and then walked toward the kitchen. “No bother – I’m just trying to cook some eggs and he,” Greg gestured toward Sherlock, still silent in his chair, “is thinking.”

Sherlock sighed. “Was thinking. Past tense. And the eggs are burning.”

“Oh hell.” Greg slid the pan off the heat and into the sink. Turned on the water and the steam rose from the eggs. He walked back into the kitchen.

“You eat, John?”

John smiled and moved to the chair opposite Sherlock. “I’m good. Cuppa tea?”

Greg watched as John sat gently on the edge of the chair _. His_ chair _._ Well, it used to be his chair. Lately it had been where Sherlock kept cups and saucers he couldn’t be bothered with taking into the kitchen.

“I thought you had a big bust today.” John stared at Sherlock.

“Yeah, ask Sherlock about that one.” Greg walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Sherlock frowned. “The Detective Inspector overreacted to an innocent text message.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the whole story.” John slipped out of his jacket. “What was it this time? Couldn’t find your favourite socks?”

Greg chuckled. “You need to come round more often.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re the very essence of wit.”

John leaned up and patted Sherlock on the knee. “No, that’s you, my friend. In a few weeks. Got that speech done?”

“It’s a work in progress, John. I am gathering data.”

“Which means he has no bloody idea what he’s going to say.” Greg walked into the room and handed John a cup and saucer. “Which is why he’s so cranky.”

“Really?” Sherlock stood. “I thought we’d solved that particular problem thirty minutes ago.”

Greg felt his face grow hot. This was the other piece he wasn’t quite used to – public declarations of affection. Granted, John wasn’t exactly the public, but still . . .

“Sherlock, don’t change the subject.” John said to Sherlock, but stared at Greg, smiling.

Greg ignored them both and moved to the couch.

“I can always ask Mike to give the speech . . . or Anderson.” John winked at Greg.

“Yeah, I’m sure Donovan’s quite keen . . .”Greg felt better when he saw Sherlock’s frown.

“Oh, she’d be great.”

Sherlock walked into the kitchen. John set his tea on the table and followed Sherlock.

“You saw the blog?” They stood together at the sink, talking low.

It was this part Greg didn’t know what to do with. He knew there were things in Sherlock’s work – Sherlock’s life – that he wasn’t privy to. Hell, half the cases he knew about were highly unorthodox, not to mention slightly illegal. He knew far more than he should about many things, but he also knew Sherlock, and by extension John, sometimes needed to retreat into their own world and shut the door.

He sighed and pulled himself off the couch. He should be happy they didn’t include him in everything. He’d hate to have to come here one day to nick them both. Again.

“I’m having a shower.” He walked into the kitchen. Sherlock turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Alone.” Greg held up a finger. “I’ve got to get back to work. Untangle the mess you left me with.”

He heard John asking Sherlock what he had to do with the latest mess as he closed the door.

 

When he came out of the bathroom, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, legs crossed, fingers steepled in front of him. Greg fought the urge to pull him to the floor and fuck the smirk off his face. He really needed to get to work. Instead he walked around the chair and sat.

“You got any black socks? I can’t find mine.”

Sherlock looked up. “Second drawer, left side. Take a charcoal pair.”

Greg smiled. “Like I can tell the difference.” He stood. “Second drawer you say?”

“And write it down.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“In the ledger in the top drawer. Write it down.”

Greg stopped and turned. “There’s a ledger?”

“Top drawer.”

“For your socks. A ledger for your socks?”

Sherlock stood. “I’ll do it.”

Greg followed Sherlock into the bedroom. “Seriously? You write down when people take your socks?”

“Not people. You. And sometimes John.”

Greg watched as Sherlock pulled out a small book from the top drawer and opened it. “Bloody hell . . . you know they’re just socks, right?”

Sherlock scribbled something and then looked at the page. “And you have yet to return the blue pair and the grey pair.” He looked at Greg. “I’m willing to forgive the grey ones. Not my favourite.”

Greg sat on the bed, shaking his head. “I’ll get right on that.” He grabbed the socks Sherlock handed him and put them on. “Is there a late fee?”

“There’s always a late fee.”

Greg swallowed hard at the expression on Sherlock’s face. Apparently work could wait.

 

*****

 

The wedding was . . . interesting. He made it back from the local constabulary just in time for the first dance. John and Mary looked happy, considering their wedding had turned into a grand display of Sherlock’s deductive powers. Which were pretty grand.

He watched Sherlock’s fingers work the strings as he played the song he’d written for John and Mary. It was beautiful. It was romantic. It was sad. He knew this change was going to be hard on Sherlock. Before John, Greg had spent much of his time making sure Sherlock didn’t do something really dangerous or really stupid –After John, Sherlock had (almost) stopped his self-destructive behaviour, focusing instead on solving cases. He seemed . . . grounded.

Which was why Greg had been waiting for weeks for him to blow.  Last night, as Sherlock paced from the fireplace to the door, raving about the ridiculous practices of weddings and marriage and love, Greg could feel the real emotions underneath gathering steam.

Those emotions were quite simple. Sherlock hated change. He lived in chaos, but he hated change. He’d start a riot in the middle of Piccadilly Circus to catch a killer, but don’t let anyone dare to move his slippers. Just last week Greg had finally convinced Sherlock to throw away the Times crossword page that was on the floor next to John’s chair for over a month, not to be touched in case John wanted to finish it.

He wasn’t surprised to glance out the window of the reception hall to see Sherlock, coat billowing behind him, walking down the lane in the direction of London. In spite of the masterful display he had shown, despite the fact that even after John married Mary, he kept close to Sherlock all evening and despite the fact that Greg and Sherlock had had a talk about this very thing . . . Sherlock bolted.

Greg sighed. He looked for John and Mary and his coat – in that order. He stared longingly at the still full table of sweets, and was surprised to see Sherlock’s violin case against the wall. He knew it meant something. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that was. He tucked the case under his arm and headed in the direction of a very long night.

 

Greg’s taxi pulled to the kerb at Baker Street and he was relieved to see the dark silhouette at the window. He paid the cab driver and fished the key out of his pocket. He knew Sherlock would never open the door for him tonight. He was probably twelve cigarettes into full blown melancholy. Greg thought it was a good sign that he was home. Time was he would have left the wedding and headed straight down to the waterfront and a vein full of something illegal.

He climbed the stairs and stopped in the open doorway and watched Sherlock, who stood staring  out the window, a glass of whiskey in one hand, cigarette dangling in the other. His robe was cinched tight around his waist and he was barefoot. Greg felt his heart beat faster as he looked at Sherlock’s face – yep, melancholy writ large.

“Just come in. You’ve done the breaking, you might as well finish with the entering.” Sherlock turned and looked at Greg.

Greg held up his key. “Not a B and E if you’re invited.” Greg walked into the room, tossed his coat on the couch, set the violin against the chair and headed into the kitchen. “What are we drinking?”

Sherlock moved to his chair. “I am drinking. You are leaving.”

Greg ignored him, found a glass and walked back into the room. “You should be more grateful. You left your violin. I returned it to you undamaged. You’re welcome.”

Sherlock glanced at the violin and nodded toward the bottle on the table. “I didn’t leave it. I abandoned it.”

Greg filled his glass and joined Sherlock at the window. “Dramatic, even for you.”

Sherlock didn’t answer but leaned against Greg’s shoulder. Greg sipped the whiskey. The good stuff. The really good stuff.

They stood quiet for a minute. Greg leaned into Sherlock. Felt Sherlock’s body relax. He sighed and took another sip.

“I can’t imagine how much this bottle cost. Mycroft?”

Sherlock straightened. “Hardly. My brother is many things, but a whiskey sommelier he is not.” He lowered his head against Greg’s for a brief second and turned, breaking contact.

Greg smiled. Sometimes he needed a dictionary, a map and a bloody divining rod to figure out Sherlock.

Tonight it was like he came with subtitles. Sherlock was pining. Already missing John. If Greg had any thought that this was some kind of traditional arrangement he and Sherlock had, he might even have been a bit jealous. This could turn into quite a pout.  But nothing about Sherlock and him had ever been traditional. Hell it was barely an arrangement. Although Sherlock had allowed Greg to keep a sweatshirt and two pair of pants in the sock ledger drawer.

Greg smiled and watched Sherlock walk to his chair and sit, setting the whiskey glass on the table. Greg moved to John’s chair – even he was still calling it that – and slipped out of his shoes.

“I am knackered.” He lifted a foot and placed it between Sherlock’s legs. “Fancy a rub?”

Sherlock looked at Greg, at his feet, and back at Greg. “At least you brought back my blue socks.” He reached down and pulled at the toe of the sock, slipping it off Greg’s foot.

“Hey! Those are not your socks. They are new.”

Sherlock ignored him, moving to the other foot and removing the sock. “They are neither. Yours or new.” He folded them together, placed them on the table and tugged Greg’s foot into his lap.

Greg happily lost the argument, closing his eyes, letting his head fall against the back of the chair as Sherlock used those gorgeous fingers on his instep. “Oh, yeah . . . ahhhhh . . .”

Sherlock stopped for a moment and Greg opened his eyes. “What?”

Sherlock resumed his kneading. “The sounds you are making are very familiar . . .”

Greg moaned and pushed his other foot into Sherlock’s lap. “Fuck . . . your hands are . . . ahhhh.”

How was Sherlock doing that? Making him relaxed and hard at the same bloody time? Greg gripped the arms of the chair as Sherlock took a foot in each hand, his fingers working the muscles and tendons. He felt Sherlock shift and opened his eyes to see Sherlock slide off his chair, pulling Greg’s legs apart. He set Greg’s feet on the floor and rose to his knees, moving his hands up Greg’s legs, kneading and rubbing. Greg put his hands behind his head and let his hips open. Sherlock reached the bulge in Greg’s trousers and moved around it, heading up his chest, tugging his shirt free from the belt, slipping his hands underneath.

Greg took a swift breath as Sherlock rose against Greg’s chest, his hands tweaking his nipples underneath his shirt, until his lips lightly pressed against Greg’s. Greg moved his hands to Sherlock’s hips and opened his mouth.

Sherlock’s tongue slipped inside and Greg pulled him closer. Sherlock pressed against him, a small moan escaping his lips and he pulled his hands out of Greg’s shirt and rested them on Greg’s belt. He broke contact and when Greg opened his eyes, Sherlock was staring at him.

“Hi.” It was the only syllable that rose up from the fog in Greg’s brain.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and unbuckled Greg’s belt. Greg lifted his hips (almost involuntarily – almost) and Sherlock unzipped his trousers, slid them down Greg’s hips.

Greg hissed as Sherlock’s cold fingers took his cock and pulled it out of his pants.

Sherlock paused again. Greg laid his head back. “I need to beg?”

Sherlock answered by lowering himself down to his knees. He took Greg’s cock into his mouth and Greg gripped the arms of the chair and hung on as Sherlock’s teeth scraped over his cock, his tongue working the head. Greg felt himself slipping out of the chair and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders, his hips thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth. He came with an exhaled breath, and Sherlock continued to suck him hard, fingering his balls, until Greg pushed him back onto the floor.  

Sherlock rose to his feet (how the hell does he do that?), the bulge in his pants straining against the flimsy silk material and walked into the bathroom. Greg didn’t move. Concentrated on breathing. Listened to the water run in the sink. He heard Sherlock turn off the tap and tried to sit up straighter, making a half hearted attempt to untangle himself from his pants.

He heard Sherlock walk towards him, felt his head lean against his, felt his breath on the side of his face.

“You have work to do, Gregory.”

The growl in his voice made Greg’s cock twitch. He heard Sherlock’s footsteps disappear into the bedroom. He sighed and kicked off his trousers and pants in one motion. He leaned forward and used Sherlock’s chair to stand. Picked up his glass and the rest of the bottle of whiskey and followed the footsteps into the bedroom.

 

*****

 

Greg woke up and reached over for . . . a pillow. He sighed and rolled onto his back. He looked at the ceiling and tried to guess what time it might be. It had been late into the night when the “work” Sherlock expected from him was done.  He looked over to the empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, which explained his headache. He tucked his arms behind his head and catalogued his aches and pains from head to toe. Toe? Why did his toe hurt? Oh. Right.

The clouds outside the window gave him no hint as to the time. He was going to have to get up. He was in dire need of coffee. And he needed to find Sherlock.

He rolled to a sitting position and reached for the robe that had been draped on the end of the bed. He slipped into it and stood, cinching the belt tight around his waist. It was too long by half, but he had grown accustomed to wearing these silly things. He’d never admit it to anyone breathing, but they were not bad.

He picked up his mobile from the floor and looked at the time. 8:15. Still morning. He went into the kitchen, looking for Sherlock, and was happy to find a pot of coffee, still hot. He poured himself a cup and went into the living room, not expecting to see Sherlock on the end of the couch, legs drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees. Staring.

“There you are. Thanks for the coffee.” Greg walked over and sat in the middle of the couch. “Couldn’t sleep?” He looked at Sherlock. He knew not to expect an answer, but it was best to come in soft. He reached for Sherlock. “Hey, are you in there?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just stared more intently. Greg followed his gaze to John’s – _the_ – chair. He sighed. He was too tired. This was either “you need to fuck me out of this mood,” or “leave me alone I’m in a mood.” Greg didn’t have an ounce of energy to devote to either.

“Come on Sherlock, gimme a break. I’m hung over and hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” He reached again and jostled Sherlock’s arm. “Fancy a nice breakfast? Somewhere dark with a warm fire?”

Sherlock uncurled, setting his feet on the ground. He scrubbed his face and looked at Greg. “It’s completely preposterous, you know.”

“Breakfast? But I’m starving. Fix me some eggs, then.”

Sherlock snorted. “Precisely. Eggs. You’d think they’d know how to avoid this, being medical professionals, though I use the term professional lightly . . .”

Greg realized he had entered the conversation a bit late. “So you’re not talking about breakfast, eh?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why are you still here?”

Greg stood. This was not the morning for this particular incarnation of Sherlock Holmes. “Consider me gone, mate.” He headed to the bedroom, picking up his trousers on the way.

Sherlock stood and followed Greg to the bedroom door. “No, stop. I just meant . . .”

Greg turned and looked at Sherlock. “You meant what? Fuck off maybe?”

“No, I just . . . well . . . you know I’m no good at this.”

“At what?”

“Morning small talk.” Sherlock turned and went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “And I don’t have eggs.”

Greg shook his head. Definitely not in the mood for this. “Okay, so I’ll just go get some breakfast and you can continue whatever you were doing.” He slipped out of the robe and stuck a leg in his trousers. He’d find his pants later. He took a sweatshirt – his – off the back of the chair and tugged it over his head, grabbed his phone, and his wallet and keys and walked back into the kitchen.  He turned the knob on the kitchen door but stopped when he heard Sherlock from the living room.

“Stay.”

He leaned his head against the door. He’d almost made it. He walked around into the living room. Sherlock had resumed his position on the couch.

“What, Sherlock? I mean really. No bullshit. Something is obviously bothering you. I can count on one hand the times you’ve sat on that couch-

“We’ve sat on this couch before . . . if you recall . . .”

Greg flashed on a memory of Sherlock’s head between his legs, his foot propped against Sherlock’s hip-

“Never mind that.” Greg joined Sherlock on the couch. “I’m starving. Either you tell me what you obviously need to tell me, or I am going downstairs to Speedy’s and you can ring me.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it. Turned to face Greg. “The baby.”

“What baby?”

“Never was there talk of a baby.”

Greg wished he’d finished his coffee. “Who’s talking about a baby?”

“How are we ever going to do the kind of meticulous deductive work when all he’s thinking about is nappies and nannies?”

Greg frowned and then the fog lifted. “You’re talking about John.”

“Of course I’m talking about John.”

“John’s having a baby?”

Sherlock’s response was a withering stare.

Greg chuckled. “They’re pregnant? John and Mary? Well fuck all.” He looked at Sherlock. “Ohhh, they told you at the wedding didn’t they? No wonder you abandoned your violin. Fuck all. That’s amazing.”

Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest. “I can think of other adjectives. And no, they didn’t tell me. I told them. Mind numbingly easy deduction.”

Greg smiled. “So that’s it, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Getting married is one thing. You’ve managed to maneuver around Mary quite nicely, but a baby?”

“Ridiculous.”

“Not even Sherlock Holmes will be able to maneuver his will around a baby. Although I’d pay a fine wage to see it.”

“Yes, yes, so funny. I’m just worried about John.”

“Why John?”

Sherlock sighed and stood. “He has no idea what to do with a baby.”

“Does anyone really? Come on Sherlock. It’s good news. It’s what happens. Marriage, babies, nappies, nannies.”

“It’s not what happens to me.”

“Lucky then, since it’s not happening to you. You should be happy for them – wait, are they happy about it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Happiness doesn’t matter. The work matters.”

Greg thought he smelled bacon. He was really starving. And this was going to be a long, complicated conversation, never to be finished until Uncle Sherlock was holding little Gertrude Hortensia on his sexy knees, probably still complaining. But he should be the good friend (boyfriend?) and talk him out of something idiotic.

Wait. What? Boyfriend? Was that what he was? Had he fallen into an actual relationship with the pouting juvenile standing before him? No way. No bloody way.

Sherlock turned away from him and walked into the kitchen. “You can go now.”

Greg shook his head again. He’d think about what and who he was later. One disaster at a time.

Right now he wanted to kill John Watson. He didn’t think John had any idea the grenade that had been  launched into Sherlock’s lap last night when someone had figured out Mary was pregnant. And who exactly did John think was going to defuse and disarm this grenade? Greg had the growing suspicion that John Watson knew exactly who would put Sherlock back together.

Greg scrubbed his face. Fuck all of them; he was too hungry for any of it. He stood and stretched and walked into the kitchen.

“Sherlock, I’m going downstairs to get breakfast.  A lot of breakfast. And then I’m coming right back up here and you can explain to me all the ways John’s baby will ruin your whole life – a baby, by the way, that if the parents had any sense would never let you anywhere near it.”

Greg walked over to Sherlock and kissed him on the cheek. “And if you keep looking so fucking wounded, furious, and sexy at the same goddamned time, I’m also going to come back and fuck you right here on the table.” He kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth and walked toward the door.

“Over easy, two sausages, beans and a sweet roll.” Sherlock said from the kitchen.

Greg smiled and headed down the stairs. Whatever it was, this thing that was him and Sherlock would never be boring. He hoped he had the strength for it. For starters, he was going to need a very big breakfast.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to Susan - who makes me right.


End file.
